


Parry

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4548054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond vainly tries to teach Lindir how to fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parry

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Elrond, given the darkening times, encourages Lindir to train with him in combat and swordsmanship. Lindir is surprised how worked up he gets with the adrenaline and exhilaration and unbelievably beautiful Elrond being all sexy and sweaty and oh my god is he taking his shirt off?!?!” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26211586#t26211586).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s grateful that they practice in a private room, the door closed and the windows looking out above the river instead of to the courtyards. When his lord first suggested this, Lindir feared they’d be in the gardens, and Elladan and Elrohir and other such warriors would pass by and _laugh_. Lindir is no warrior. But Elrond knows this, and he’s kind. He’s brought dulled swords and speaks to Lindir in gentle, encouraging words, insisting that in these dark times, no one can afford to lack skill in combat. 

Lindir has no such skills. When his lord rushes at him, he merely flinches and hides behind his sword, deflecting wherever he can. He can tell that Elrond is going easy on him—an orc would be sent sprawling across the floor. But Elrond’s blows either stop a fraction from Lindir’s body or bounce lightly off his practice sword. At first, it’s only this defense—important in a fight, yes, but Lindir doesn’t feel he’s getting any better at it. By the time Elrond stops, Lindir’s shaking, wishing he could simply drop the sword and allow his beloved lord to tackle him to the ground. 

Elrond frowns. He paces slowly behind Lindir, comes up close, one hand touching, feather-soft, his hip, and the other curling around his wrist. Elrond straightens him, guides him into place, and adjusts the placement of his fingers. Lindir murmurs, “I am sorry, my lord,” for he’s ever a disappointment. 

Elrond tells him simply, “War does not come easily to us all, and you are young and unpracticed. These take time.” Lindir nods his acquiescence, though in truth, he’ll only suffer them in order to have this time with Elrond. The contact of Elrond’s stronger body behind his sends a shiver down his spine, and he tries not to burn where he’s touched. He almost wants to purposely ruin his stance, if only to have Elrond smooth him into place. But he doesn’t, and Elrond leaves again, coming to stand before him.

“I must assess your skill level. For this, you must try to land a blow.” 

Lindir nods in understanding, though he doesn’t lift his sword. Elrond lifts one eyebrow. Lindir _tries_ , he does, but he hesitates, and he finds his feet won’t carry him forward. His shoulders have gone stiff. He can’t swing at Elrond. 

“Lindir,” Elrond murmurs, stepping near and fixing Lindir with his sharp gaze, warm but commanding. “I order you to wield your sword. Do not fear. I promise you, you will not hurt me.”

Intellectually, Lindir knows that. He knows Elrond’s a great warrior. But emotionally, it takes a great deal of effort to move his weapon through the air. He does so with a wince, but he can’t disobey; he never has. He swings, only for Elrond’s sword to fly into place, easily blocking the blow, and Lindir’s sword shudders back under the sturdiness of Elrond’s hold. Elrond bids, “Try again.”

Lindir opens his mouth, but closes it. He’ll obey, thought it pains him. He lunges again, is blocked again. His cheeks flush, but he continues to try. He swings blow after blow forward, both hands clenched tight around his hilt, and he varies them because he can see on Elrond’s face that he desires it. To some extent, Lindir _wants_ to fight well; he wants to impress his lord. But he also wants these lessons to go on, painful though they are, and he still fears hurting his lord. Lindir throws himself into a fury, moving this way and that, breathing hard to compensate, but when Elrond moves, it’s a fluid dance, and he doesn’t seem to sweat or pant. Lindir goes and goes as long as he can, pushing his own stamina, because he hasn’t been commanded to stop, and he’s obedient. He prides himself on that. He can’t fight, but he can _obey_.

He surprises himself at how hard he tries. Not well, but hard. It spikes his adrenaline and makes his pulse hammer in his veins. It’s exhilarating, moving this way, but mostly watching the skill of his master, twirling about with such ease and might. Elrond is always beautiful, but he’s especially so like this, and it’s a rare treat for Lindir to see him so active. His hair flies out about him, and several times Lindir fears he may cut it, but Elrond seems to have control over every part of his body. His robes, though unfit for such movement, are a part of his dance. Lindir’s aren’t, and they weigh him down, but he moves until Elrond nods and commands, “Stop.”

Lindir stills instantly, sword raised, chest pounding. Though it was difficult to start, now it’s difficult to stand still. He lowers his sword, breathing hard and staring at the proud warrior before him, handsome and as sensual as he’s ever been. There’s something so powerfully _alluring_ in these movements, and Lindir’s cheeks stain, his face purposely falling aside. 

“We have come ill prepared to this,” Elrond muses, one hand clutching his hilt as the other looses his cloak. It slips to the floor like liquid, and Elrond’s long fingers move to the clasps of his tunic, drawing Lindir’s widening eyes. “I fear our robes have become a hindrance.”

Lindir’s mouth goes dry. He knows, of course, that many elves prefer to train in as little as possible—the better to become _one_ with the world around them. But Lindir’s only ever seen Elrond in his armour, custom and beautiful, shimmering brightly in the sun to blind enemies that crawl from the darkness. Now Elrond dispels his tunic, folding it and moving to place it on a nearby side table, down to only his trousers and boots.

Lindir quivers on the spot. His eyes glue themselves to the milky expanse of Elrond’s chest, broad for an elf but lithe compared to other races, taut and toned all the same. The view is tantalizing, natural but _erotic_ to one so in love as Lindir, who’s dreamed of such a sight one too many times. His tongue pokes out to wet his lips, his trousers too tight against him. He tries to follow, removing his cloak and dropping his sword in the process, but he can’t seem to look away. He feels awkward, self-conscious, wholly inadequate, but he undoes his tunic nonetheless. His body is much thinner, free of any muscle, but there’s no judgment in Elrond’s eyes. Lindir places his clothes aside and lets his hair tumble down across his shoulders, his hands belatedly removing his circlet. It will be easier, he thinks, or at least, he won’t sweat so much, but it’s a high price. He would give anything to forget his sword and run his _tongue_ down Elrond’s body instead, but he only returns to position. 

Elrond jabs at him. Lindir dodges, though he feels sluggish and can tell that Elrond could’ve made a killing blow if he wanted. The next slash is Lindir’s, again blocked, then two of Elrond’s, and Lindir swiftly falls into mere defense. He wants to fight back, wants to do as his lord wishes, but he’s too distracted by the closeness and heat of a body he’s always lusted after, wielded so artfully. The clash of their dulled swords is drowned quickly in the pounding of his own blood in his ears. When he finally does try his own attack, he loses step and trips over Elrond’s boots, toppling forward. If it weren’t for Elrond, he’d hit the ground.

Instead, he’s caught in Elrond’s arms. His knees have buckled, his weight slumping in Elrond’s grasp, though instinct has him grabbing for Elrond’s shoulders. Elrond slowly straightens him, but Lindir’s legs don’t follow. They can’t support him. He simply clutches tight to Elrond, barely able to breathe.

Elrond asks, concern slipping onto his handsome face, “Lindir?”

Lindir can’t resist any longer. They’re both half naked and in one another’s arms, so close, and Elrond is so _beautiful_ , so wondrous, and Lindir adores him so thoroughly. It’s only a tiny distance for Lindir to close, pressing their lips together, traitorous and shaking but unable to hold back. Lindir keeps against Elrond, frozen, until Elrond pulls away.

Elrond murmurs, “That is hardly a fair way to fight.”

Lindir whispers, breathless, “I surrender.”

Perhaps because Lindir’s made no move to straighten up, Elrond lowers him gently to the ground. He’s half laid down, legs curling beneath him but arms still around Elrond’s body, his fingers dug into Elrond’s skin. Elrond’s hand lifts to slip through Lindir’s hair, cupping the back of his head and holding him in. They share another kiss, this one harder, Lindir wrapping eagerly around Elrond, entangling them too tight to ever let go. It’s almost too good to be true, but it’s unmistakable; Elrond’s lips press against his, a wet tongue sliding along his seam, and Lindir leans into it, mewling desperately. 

They sink to the floor, lower, Lindir unbent until his back hits the rug, Elrond bearing over him. Elrond’s hands slip along his wrists, the swords having fallen away, and his hands are pinned down: his surrender total. Elrond’s body grinds once into his, Lindir’s wracked with a spasm of delight, and when they part next, Lindir tries to lift back, straining against Elrond’s hold. 

“Combat can give one a false sense of excitement,” Elrond cautions, still concerned and perhaps a little sad with wariness, but Lindir quickly shakes his head.

“No, I have always wanted you, my lord.” At Elrond’s small smile, Lindir adds, flushed hot, “Although, this was quite thrilling.” He worms his hands gently away, freeing them, and he tentatively lifts them again to splay against Elrond’s naked chest, only slightly damp to the touch with a thin layer of sweat, nowhere near as glossy as Lindir’s. When he can tear himself away, Lindir glances up to ask, “Must we keep fighting?”

With a heavy sigh, Elrond decides, “I suppose love is another way to combat the darkness.” Lindir feels like he’s glowing. Elrond leans down again, Lindir utterly delighted and ready for a different workout entirely.


End file.
